


Out of Tune

by SmallerSounds



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Drama, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern AU, cheese fest, musician au, sanluci
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-04-23 06:24:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19145350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallerSounds/pseuds/SmallerSounds
Summary: Regardless of what had happened. What it did to him- to the both of them. At the end of the day, if Lucifer can no longer presents his talent to the world then he will do so in his stead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I said it was going to cost me my life if I didn't write it so I did! Haha! 
> 
> This work will be very self-contained and much less pensive compared to my previous story. I hope that doesn't discourages anyone from enjoying this very self-indulgence piece. 
> 
> Rating WILL be subjected to change. Please be aware.

 

_What happened?_

_Where am I?_

Lucifer wince at the splitting pain traversing through his spine, his arms, his legs. Everywhere. All other senses unresponsive to the assailing chaos; aftermath of an unforeseen assault.

His body is immobilized, confined within a suffocating cavity surrounded by deformed metal plates and shattered glass. In the blinding darkness, Lucifer could contrive a distinct realization that he’s staring at the roof of his car as opposed to the clear, transparent window reflecting the city’s lights as he drives past downtown’s denizens and their business; seemingly out of way of life’s vagaries.

_It hurts._

That is until a brighter light came to stray him off course. Similar to harmless pranks children often play on themselves, where one bestowed with the authority of a flash-light would unexpectedly shines it directly into each other’s eyes, and laughter would ensue.

Only this time, the flash-light becomes two beams of headlights from another vehicle, crashing onto his own from the right side, derailing him away from the natural course of life- away from what was _right_.

Lucifer shuts his eyes, dusts gathering beneath his eyelids; he couldn’t be bothered with the irritation for even the excruciating pain before was dulling rapidly. He forces himself to breathe- body violently convulsing with each exhale. The lite movement provided enough sensation for him to register a damning scrap of metal embedded deep within his hand.

Sickening scent of iron penetrates his nostrils, he can’t tell if it’s coming from the car or from his own blood; he doesn’t want to find out.

_Damn it… Don’t think. I’m still alive. I’m still here. I’m not dea-_

His vision blurs more and more by the second. Garish red and blue neon dances in and out of the periphery, making him nauseous. Blaring horns burst through his eardrums, but very quickly, they retrieve further and further away into the distance.

He feels himself getting sleepier, as though just the mere action of existing depletes whatever remained in his vault for dispensable energy. Form becoming increasingly weightless. Temptation of an eternal sleep reels him into a profound blackness.

A single thought permeate through his loose-grip awareness; tender thought of an angry brunette, teary eyed and in insurmountable despair, looking down at the corpse of his lover.

_Sandalphon… I’m sorry..._

Then nothing more.

* * *

 

The auditorium bustles with noises and hushed gossips. Sandalphon sat by himself along with other ardent responders whose anticipation and wealth merited front-row seats to a long-awaited performance. He didn’t had to expend much effort attaining the spot, rather, he _couldn’t_ \- not much room is spared for independent support when you’re intimately partnered with the prime performer.

He glances at his watch- a second anniversary gift from Lucifer- it reads 20 minutes past 8, nearly half an hour delay from the show’s commence time. Schedule discrepancies don’t usually occur; Lucifer and his team meticulously plan each and every concerts they do after all.

The unexpected may always happen, of course. The sound engine can somehow chose the most imperfect moment to go on strike against proper functioning, or the piano can be seemingly tampered out of tune despite having nothing even slightly abrade its shiny veneer. Even so, those occurrences did naught to prevent Lucifer from effortlessly beguile the audience simply at the languid glide of a glissando.

It would be a virtuosic performance. They always are. The compelling quality about Lucifer isn’t merely trite criticisms regarding his techniques. Rather, it’s about the imaginative character concealed behind every dedicated works. His physical music serves only a guiding companion to the intricate thoughts process of the human mind. Truly a hallmark to any musician’s ingenuity. It’s left to public conspiracies whether or not Lucifer’s birth name is indicative of an immoral pact with the Devil in exchange for his talent; the likes of speculations which have only been seen in the infamous legend of Niccolo Paganini. Sandalphon recalls laughing a good while at its absurdity when Lucifer showed him an article theorizing such possibility.

Today’s concert will be no exception to Lucifer’s track-record, Sandalphon expects as much. Lucifer wasn’t going to deliver anything less than a positively sublime experience, especially post extended-hiatus.

However, he’s getting worried that if the guests are made to wait any longer without an explanation for the delay, the show would receive quite the begrudged compliments in the journals next day.

Sandalphon clench the flower bouquet in his arms, body leaning forward and to the side for a chance to peek behind the velvet stage curtain, wistfully wishing the towering drape can perhaps tells him what’s happening behind backstage.

Suddenly, the intercom came to life, bellowing the auditorium with a monotone apology and an announcement that they’ve apparently encounter some difficulties. At the exact same time, Sandalphon’s phone vibrates in his pocket, he reaches for it and sees it’s a call from Michael.

Immediately, alarms were setting off in his brain.

Michael has never called him. As Lucifer’s manager, any business she needs to discuss went to Lucifer first and foremost. Being the cautious personnel she is, Michael specifically requested his number solely for emergency purposes; which luckily, she have had no need to use it.

Until now.

Sandalphon’s feels his palm sweating as he regards the phone with fear. Fear of _what_ exactly, he can’t deduce. He only knows the vibrations from the device is sending more wrecking tremors to his heart. Afraid of Michael hanging up, Sandalphon nervously presses answer and raises the phone to his ear.

“Michael? What’s-”

“You need to leave now. Lucifer has been taken to the hospital.”

Sandalphon almost drops the phone due to shock. His blood runs cold. Frisson speeds up his spine to the base of his scalp. Under normal circumstances, it had been an effect for whenever Lucifer punctuates on a particularly satisfying cord; privately to greater degrees whenever they had the leisure to indulge themselves between the sheets.

Only now it makes him sick to his stomach.

Sandalphon bolts up from his seat and begins to run for the exit, ignoring the dropped bouquet and annoyed exclaims from people he crashes into alike. It may have been overly dramatic, but the urgency in Michael’s voice did not insinuate Lucifer’s condition to be anything less than dire.

“Why!?! Is he alright?! Where did they take him?” Sandalphon almost yells into the phone, clutching it with such brute force, he’s surprised it’s not already cracked.

“He was in a car crash.”

“What…?” Sandalphon slows down to a halt as the words registered. A crash... A _collision_ . His morbid assumptions flashes a brief, but heinous image of Lucifer sprawled out on the cold pavement... bloodied and breathless. _Dea-_

“P- Please tell me he’s okay.” Sandalphon’s voice hitched in his throat. Silently begging Michael to spare him some shed of hope, as if she held Lucifer’s livelihood in the palm of her hand.

“He’s alive, but in critical condition. They’ve taken him to the hospital in downtown. He’s already been put in operation when I arrived.”

Sandalphon releases a breath he didn’t realized he was holding. “Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Sandalphon turns his head towards the concert hall. “About the concert-”

“I’ll contact them after this. I felt it was only right to call you first.”

He and Michael admittedly have not communicate beyond polite greetings before this. Arguably, this is the longest interaction they’ve ever had. Despite so, she is one of the few -if not the _only one_ \- that’s privy to Lucifer’s relationship with him. He had been under the assumption that she simply disregards Lucifer’s personal life outside of work, but her sadden tone just now suggested something deeper; sympathy and concerns perhaps…

Sandalphon lowers his head. “Thank you.”

“Mmm, do you need a ride?”

“No, I can call a taxi. I’ll be there soon.”

Sandalphon doesn’t wait for a response before hanging up. There isn’t anything more to say. The linchpin of his life is tethering between life and death right in this moment and he wasn’t about to profeit a lover to cruel happenstance.

_Don’t leave me just yet, Lucifer._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I both hate and love this chapter for vastly different reasons *Head in hands*.
> 
> I actually don't know anything about piano nor their culture lol... I just enjoy listening to them. (I really recommend all of Brian Cain's works. They're beautiful.) As such, I also don't know anything about the human recovery rate, or hospital rules, or how normal people converse.
> 
> What you're about to read is me digging my grown grave and jumping into it.
> 
> Saving is needed, naturally.

* * *

 

Sandalphon settled himself down a chair in the right corner of the claustrophobic room. Monitors and wires surround the central bed, occupied by an unconscious man whose physical aptitude does not belong in a hospital, much less the critical care unit.

Michael had departed some hours ago to resolve issues with the now-cancelled concert. How will the crew compensate all the guests and mitigate the presses tomorrow, Sandalphon can’t possibly know, but he trusts she’ll be capable of handling it. He imagines both of them aren’t going to get any sleep tonight. Doubtful that either of them _can_.

He pulls up one leg and rests his chin on top of his knee, a steaming coffee cup he somehow managed to wander to the canteen and bought now nesting between his hands; its incandescence helps keeps him aware of the oscillating lines of the heart monitor. Resounding monochromatic noise reassures him that Lucifer is alive but also simultaneously instill fear that it could very well cease at any moment.

Seeing Lucifer in this state simply feels so _wrong_. Sandalphon wishes to be closer to him- let his presence somehow comfort Lucifer’s comatose mind that someone is here in wait for him to wake up; to open his eyes and says “Good morning, Sandalphon.” and they can go on pretending to be back on their king-sized bed in their small condominium at the city’s outskirts, nestled in too many pillows of different assortments and in each other’s embrace, while morning lights filter through the blinds.

Sandalphon sighs- not too loudly lest he might upsets whatever fragile cosmic threads keeping Lucifer’s life intact. Questions roam freely in his thoughts of what could’ve occurred on that road. Who’s fault had it been? How could it happen? Why now? Why Lucifer at all?

_Is your hand alright? Will you be fine after this?_

Neon red numbers of an electric clock switch to the last minute of the hour. It’s almost 4 AM; five hours since they’ve discharge Lucifer from the operation room. He’d demanded them to give him some answers, but the only response he received was that they’ll have the full diagnosis available by next morning. He’d decided to stay here until then, until Lucifer rouse from his unwarranted inhibitory state. His conscience would never forgive him on the prospect of Lucifer waking up and sees no one by his side.

Sandalphon was counting down the seconds for the hour to turn 4 when there came a knock at the door. _Who would be here at this hour?_ Sandalphon mentally scoffs when he realized where he was and why. He extricate himself from the chair, quietly groans when all his joints disapprove of the sudden movement. He was nowhere near the age for such reaction to be justified but in his defense, affixing your entire body to an armchair for several hours will extract some amount of grunting from just about anyone.

He wearily walks to the door and opens it, surprised to see Michael standing there with what looks to be yet another cup of coffee. Iced, this time.

“What are you doing here?”

“Why? Am I not allowed to see him?” Michael narrowed her eyes, voice hushed, but imposing. He guesses her temper is as any worse as ever after dealing with what he can only assume to be mass chaos back at the theater. Deciding that this was not an opportune moment to straddle himself under her wrath, Sandalphon relents.

“No, I just thought you’d much prefer be getting some rest… at home.”

“You ought to be more concerned about yourself before attempting to camp in a place like this.”

“I’m not the one who’s unconscious right now.” Sandalphon crosses his arms.

“Well, you certainly look the part. I’m not sure if it was Lucifer or you who made it out of the wreckage.”

“Is this really the time for provocations?” Sandalphon heaves a sigh, admitting to his fault for tempting her in the first place; he moves out of the way and Michael steps pass the threshold. She pauses to look at Lucifer’s sleeping form before exuding a lengthy sigh herself. Something tells him she’s been through a lot more in these span of hours.

“Did the doctor say anything?” She finally asks.

“No, they said they’ll have the reports tomorrow.” Sandalphon softly closes the door behind him. “You sounds exhausted Michael, go home. I’ll stay here and call you if anything changes.”

“What a coincidence, I came here to say that exact thing.” Michael then proceeds to sit down the chair Sandalphon had taken as his companion in waiting since a few hours earlier.

“What do you mean?”

She draggingly takes a sip of her drink before answering. “I meant _you_ should go home and get rested. I’ll relieve you of your post until morning.”

“What?” Sandalphon stutters incredulously. “Who asked you to do this? He’s my lover, it’s only right that I should be here.” Seeing as Michael makes no attempt to move nor to rebut, the brunette continues. “You’re not about to tell me this kind of laborious charity is covered by your salary?”

“It matters very little to me what you consider this ‘charity’ as Sandalphon, go home.” Michael retorts curtly.

“Then why should you care about what I’m doing?”

“Maybe not, but he does.” She glances sadly at Lucifer.

Sandalphon couldn’t tell if he’d imagine the softening of her voice; at this point, there’s not enough caffeine operating his mental faculties for him to discern reality from hallucinogenic exhaustion.

Her gaze switches back to him. “Surely, you don’t wish to see Lucifer wakes up to believe his partner had somehow got involved in an accident of his own.” She halfheartedly smiles. “My position as his manager has nothing to do with this. It might be unbeknownst to you, but he is a dear friend foremost before a career partner.”

“A friend?” Sandalphon really wasn’t aware. He knew they shared a rather close relationship, but has never bothered to pry any further. He wasn’t quite comfortable around her after all, and Lucifer would never be one for infidelity; there was no need for concern. Not to mention the lack of business on his part who Lucifer decides to befriend; monopolization is an ugly ideal.

“Yes,” Michael says as a matter of factly, “That’s why it isn’t easier on me to witness this state he’s in,” She motions vaguely to Lucifer. “the least you can do is spare me the peace of mind of having to not worry about another besides the injured.”

Judging by her demeanor, disputing would be a futile effort. Since when did she take privilege to mother him anyway? The image of returning to an empty home is something he’d been trying to avoid… The brunette would much rather stay here, in that chair, body painfully conforming to the same stature as the furniture, inhaling more hospital stench in the process than churning restless on a desolate bed. “Still-”

“I know we haven’t made ourselves much acquainted beyond name familiarity but just hear me out this time will you?” Michael interjects.

Sandalphon rakes a hand through messy locks in frustration. He feels childish for having this ill-suited banter in such an inappropriate place. Moreover, Michael’s strange persistence on keeping watch has him perplexed at best and irritable at worst. Although… he might’ve picked up her real intention- obscured behind enumerable blunt commands. Sentencing himself confinement in this room wasn’t going to change Lucifer’s condition for the better so there’s no reason it _has_ to be him. (As much as he loath admitting to that truth.) Alternating shifts is by-far most beneficial to both parties’ self-proclaimed responsibility for Lucifer’s well-kept, if not logical. Furthermore, there’s no doubt in mind his appearance most likely _does_ resembles death right about now. Hell, he even feels like so.

And no, he does _not_ want to see Lucifer wakes up for the first thing to utter out of his battered frame is “Sandalphon, are you alright?” It’d most certainly saves him the unconvincing excuses he’d have to conjure on the spot. Not that Lucifer will believes him anyhow.

Sandalphon grits his teeth, silently marveling at his atypical propensity for compliance. Silent footfall makes its way toward the reclining bed ridden with wires and tubes puncturing the delicate, pale skin of a man whose mental fortitude would’ve moved to tears if he could witness the kind of crestfallen expression his lover is sporting. He plants a chaste kiss on Lucifer’s forehead, pleading against all odds the sincere sentiment can be felt. “Wake up soon.” He whispers.

He turns to face Michael. “I’ll return in the morning then. Thank you.”

She sagely nods. “You can thank me by buying me a caffeine refill. And breakfast.”

“Any particular preferences?”

“Surprise me.”

She gives him no further implication, but he figured any gratitude on par for the course of such service would entail an exorbitant meal at the very least. He gathers his things and make way for the door, passing an appraising glance behind him. “Maybe we could get to know each other better, once you’re thorough ruling whether or not I’m worth the while.” _Two years is a bit overdue, but better late than never I suppose._

Michael only chuckles. “Don’t be a cheeky brat.”

* * *

Sandalphon inserts his key into the copper lock, sighing for the umpteenth time; he’d rather not make it into a habit, but today’s event has compromised his stoic disposition greatly. The wooden door opens silently, cascade of still air washed over him as though pestering an unneeded reminder of the apartment’s vacancy. He locks the door behind him, a final click of gears reverberate louder than it normally does. He trudged his way across the living room; energy too spent and care too scarce to turn on any lights. Scantering moonlight was as good a companion as any. His mission had been to make a bee-line for the shower. The stench of hospital clung to his attire uncomfortably and only now when he’s in the comfort of his own home- or lack thereof- does it become unbearably nauseating; it wouldn’t do much good to pervade his safe haven with scents of antiseptic and chemicals.

Or at least, it _had_ been his goal if not for the way moonlight reflects off the shiny veneer of a grand piano situated at the living room’s corner captivated his attention. It’s lonely solitude shone under nature’s spotlight with ethereal iridescence; Sandalphon finds himself gravitating towards the object with unparalleled longing. He flops down onto the bench rather unceremoniously, slender fingers caress the fallboard with same degree of delicacy he had touched his beloved previous momentarily. Sandalphon idly wonders what sort of piece Lucifer would serenade him under such immaculate moonshine. Clair de Lune would be much fitting indeed, but oh so dull; it’s a shame to see its unique enticement lost due to society’s excessive overplay. How come Suite Bergamasque did not get received with the same public reverent, Sandalphon had no idea.

Sandalphon lifts the fallboard to reveal patterned black and white bars. He could effortlessly visualize Lucifer’s long, dexterous fingers scoring precise strokes across these keys. From soothing, lesser known works of Masako to rigorous exercise in technique and willpower from basically everything Franz Liszt has ever composed. Sandalphon distinctly remember the agonizing days when Lucifer would incessantly mulls over the increasing scribbled score of La Campanella. Throw some of Chopin’s inherent sadism in watching contemporaries and future pianist revel in abject horror of his impossible compositions into the midst and you’ll have a dejected man. Dejected yes, but not to be mistaken with defeated. For as much as Lucifer sought comfort in his intimate partner whenever frustration inevitably resurfaced, that’s not to say his inept aptitude and passion for the instrument doesn’t prevail in the end. He wouldn’t be where he is if that weren’t the case. Not to mention Sandalphon is in fact, quite fond of spoiling Lucifer, both during rehearsal hours and during their private after-party succeeding every concert. He’d assessed numerous times whether he was adorning his paramour with too much indulgence, but ultimately deciding that it was well deserved.

Sandalphon hang his head low, contemplating if he should just plant his face into the keys; let the marks ensnare his cheek, perhaps then he might feel even an iota of Lucifer’s presence upon the ivory. Absentmindedly wanders to the unspoken. _Will he ever play again? Can he? The career he’d worked so hard for… jeopardized by fate’s senseless cruelty. Will he even open his eyes agai-_ Sandalphon abruptly stood up in service of cutting short the abysmal prospect. He delivers himself a curt slap before making his way towards the bathroom with heightened determination. He needs to put up a good front after all if Michael were to accept that he’d gotten sufficient rest. The very last thing he’d want is more of her imperious berating.

* * *

When he arrived at the hospital once more the next- or rather, the same morning, the sun had decidedly ungrace the sky with its warmth; opting instead, to hide behind somber and menacing clouds. Heavy rainfall raps against clear glass windows like innumerable erratic metronomes and the occasional thunder bellowing like cymbals colliding to meet its rest. _How appropriate._ Sandalphon halts in front of the door leading to Lucifer’s room, seconds short of making an entrance. He’s grateful for his spectacular grip on motor control for he might’ve send his watch-mate's promised breakfast plummeting to the floor when he heard unmistakable chatter coming from the room. Michael’s acerbic tenor he could easily discern while the other was small, raspy, borderline broken, but undoubtedly _“him”_.

“Lucifer!” Sandalphon bursts through the threshold, alarming the two occupants in the room along with several nurses near the vicinity.

“Mind your manners.” Michael quickly reprimands him.

Paying no mind to the disgruntled manager, Sandalphon rushes to his lover’s bedside. Semi-ellipses of shadows protrudes under Lucifer’s impossible blue eyes. Dawn-tinted skin now seem almost jaded under prolonged physical stress and against the stark white of their surroundings. Sandalphon slid a hand to feel his beloved’s supple skin, only to find it chapped and sunken; serene features now blemished with marring hued bruises and cuts, altogether devoid of their former glamour. “How are you feeling? When did you wake up? Why didn’t Michael call me?” Ceaseless barrage of questions carelessly thrown into the wind, each query reinforce his elatedness of Lucifer’s consciousness finally returning. Sandalphon casts an accusatory glare at Michael’s direction. “ You said you’d call if anything changes?”

“I never dictates ‘when’. Besides, I wanted some moment with him.”

Sandalphon would be lying if he didn’t feel a blood vessel constricts at that statement. Meanwhile, he felt something tug at his wrist, Lucifer’s appendages were largely covered with layers of gauze, only his feeble digits are remained to attempt in capturing Sandalphon’s own. He reaches to and entwined their fingers, skin-to-skin unfortunately obstructed by said thick bandages. Lucifer answers creakingly “I won’t lie to you. I feel quite terrible.”

Sandalphon could only huff in exasperation. Using his free hand to lace through silvery lock, sweeping aside stray strands near Lucifer’s weary eyes. “It would be concerning if you didn’t feel as such. How long have you regained consciousness?”

“Not long.” Michael answers in his stead. “The doctor also reported on his conditions.” A pause. “Do you wish for me to tell him or would you rather do it?” She regards Lucifer.

Lucifer meekly shakes his head. “He shouldn’t be left in the dark. He dislikes that.”

The two need not meander around the topic much more for the brunette to intuit the graven implication behind those resigned tenors. “Your hands…?” He asks, in fear of the answer it may bring.

Lucifer wordlessly confirms Sandalphon’s dread with a sad smile, his gaze drifts to the subject in question, ostensibly regarding them as if he can’t quite accept they were his own. Eyes glazed as though recalling the searing pain incise through the haze. Had he been cognizant enough to dislodge the metal rupturing his livelihood, would the damage have been mitigated? Or perhaps he should prostrate in gratitude to certain fickle gods? The silver-lining to the irreversible damage his hands suffered could very well be delivered to a vital organs within some anti-serendipitous kismet.

“We’ll worry about it when we get there.” Sandalphon disrupts his rumination. “What’s most important right now is his recovery.”

“I never would have taken you to be one for optimism.” Michael chirped.

“Neither would I for your arduous commitment to aggravate.”

“Did… something happened while I was asleep?” Lucifer interjects, clearly perturbed by the sudden escalating tension.

“Hmph, ‘getting to know each other,’ or so he says.” Michael scoffs, not intending to elaborate.

Lucifer raises an eyebrow in bemusement. “And to imagine my life-threatening incident is what gravitates the two of you together.”

“Please don’t joke about this, I was really...“ _Desperate. Furious. Hopeless. Lost._ “frightened.” He mutters. Vulnerability lays barren for all intended audience; he prays this particular demonstration will be deprived of its encore.

“Me too.” Lucifer responds, voice barely above a whisper. “Even now, I still am. For the future waiting for me.”

“Don’t. I’ll be here for you. Michael will too. It will work out somehow.” Sandalphon leans up to press another kiss at Lucifer’s forehead. Internally hoping the masked confidence can both relegate his lover’s anxiety and convince his own conscience to believe it as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to believe this AU was too off the wall? What do you guys think?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who bare with me and continue to encourage my outlandish AU journeys. Special thanks to @RoboG55 on twitter this time :D


End file.
